Dummy
by Spartapuss
Summary: Ezio is just minding his own business killing people when in the space of a few days, he is chased, bludgeoned, chopped, bludgeoned, nursed back to health, bludgeoned again. Blood n' Angst flavour, may contain strong language. Not suitable for vegetarians
1. Flash Of White

The bright Tuscan sun beat down upon the frescoed streets of Florence. Shadows from the multitudes of chimneys and spires rising above the city cast their cool fingers over the shimmering waters of the river. The air above clamoured with the sounds of a busy market down below, shouts of merchants pedalling their goods, chattering wives out buying food for their household, an elderly herald with a booming voice relaying the morning's news.

A sudden shade blocked out the sun for a second, and the old Florentine felt a shiver rundown his spine. He looked up at the rooftops high above, but saw nothing except a flock of pigeons fluttering suddenly into the air, and a flash of white so brief he assumed it had only been the sunlight glinting off the whitewashed walls. He scratched his beard and continued the reports.

His dark boots pounding on the baked tiles, the flash of white readied himself for the trial he knew was coming. It would conclude the hard work of the past few days, and he allowed himself a small smile at the thought of finally returning to the villa, and sleeping uninterruptedly for a long time.

Lost in his thoughts, he mistimed a leap across a street, landing awkwardly on a ledge and startling some birds. He cursed in Italian as he lost sight of his target, and inwardly berated himself for losing his concentration. Increasing his pace until he was running almost flat out, he dashed across the row of houses and slid to a stop on the edge, breathing heavily. Scanning the ground below with the precision of an eagle, he picked out the jittery looking nobleman just walking around the corner of a small church. The assassin used his light brown eyes to plan his route carefully.

Leap from here to the scaffolding, and then on to the narrow shelf of a balcony.

Scan for target, dispatch, exit up the ladder and across the rafters of a nearby building.

There was no room for any more mistakes. He took a deep breath and began the sequence, falling into the familiar pattern and feeling an innate sense of rightness as his muscles worked tirelessly to propel his lean body across the gap. His mark had turned left into a secluded alleyway, where two houses leaned together like plaster lovers. Soon he would feel the cold embrace of death, thought the assassin grimly, perched on an elaborate marble balustrade and stroking the shining blade on his wrist.

As a cloud passed across the sun, Ezio struck, dropping like a stone and plunging his weapon into the unresisting flesh. The limp body flopped heavily to the cobbles, legs bouncing like a broken puppet. As he turned to flee up the ladder, he noticed an unusually large line of guards striding purposefully towards him. That was quick. Normally the guards took hours to find the bodies, and more often never found them at all. The assassin glanced quickly at the fallen body of his latest victim to reassure himself, and gasped. It wasn't the sight of blood that shocked him; he was well used to that. No, rather it was the complete absence of blood. The neat puncture wound in the neck had straw protruding from it. It was a dummy.

"Kill l'assassino del traditore, Ezio Auditore!" roared a voice, and the traitor assassin in question spun to find the guards surrounding both exits of the alleyway.

A child could have seen that it was an ambush. Ezio scrabbled at a wall, looking for handholds, but his grasping fingers found none on the smooth terracotta surface. He dropped to the floor. "Merda!" he swore, looking for another escape route.

"Precisamente." sneered a guard brandishing a long, wicked looking scimitar with two heavily gloved hands, and without warning slashed at Ezio. The blade lacerated his side in a plume of crimson and scraps of white cloth, drawing a yawning red stripe across his chest, and he staggered back in shock. As the guard charged again, he threw himself up another ladder, three rungs at a time. He reached the top, and stretched out his arms to haul himself up.

Thud. A heavy boot came out of nowhere, breaking his arm in several places. He cried out, leaping backwards off the ladder, but not quickly enough to escape another blow which caught him in the side of his face. He span away from the archer that had blocked his escape route, and over the heads of the surprised guards, crimson spurting in a spray from a deep cut on his cheek.

The assassin tumbled head over heels as he hit the ground hard, cradling his arm, and then sprinted blindly away, his head down. He ran and ran, shoving aside citizens with his good arm, climbing where he could, but the guards always seemed to find him, appearing around corners and cutting him off, herding him until he could run no more. The blossoming scarlet stain across his torso contrasted against the stark white of his robes which picked him out immediately whenever he tried to hide himself among the crowd, who were bewildered by this bloodstained man trying to stumble in between them like a wolf among sheep.

Finally, his frame drooping and his options running out, he ran headlong into a merchant carrying a large wooden crate, and crashed to the cobbles of the piazza in an explosion of splinters and rolling oranges. Ezio lay dazed for a moment, until the angry shouting of the trader brought him struggling back to the surface. He was roughly pulled to his feet by the man, and was then subjected to a torrent of infuriated Italian while simultaneously being shaken to within an inch of his life.

"You should have looked where you were going, cretino! What am I going to tell my wife? That we can't afford to feed our children for another week? You'd better pay me for this damage, or I will report you straight to the guards! Don't think I won't!" the red-faced man paused to take a breath, and suddenly noticed that something wasn't quite right with his tormentor. He looked past his blind rage, and saw that the man's brown eyes were unfocussed, and the aggressive grip of the trader seemed to be the only thing holding him upright. Blood trickled down in rivulets from a gash in his swollen cheek, running down his jaw and staining his white tunic. He also saw the rows of knives and daggers at the careless man's bloodied waist, and the right arm at a strange angle. At last his eyes came to rest on the deep red Medici cape with the famous crest emblazoned in gold upon it.

"Forgive me. Me despieci…" he whispered, as the assassins eyes bored straight into his. Hammering footsteps echoed along a nearby street, and he felt the assassin stiffen under his hands.

Ezio glanced at the pursuing guards, and then back at the frightened man, giving an imperceptible nod and lowering his hood a little.

"Where is he? Where is he hiding?" shouted the guards, waving their weapons at the alarmed citizens, who backed off in fear. The trader began to walk slowly away from the main group of people, supporting Ezio subtly with his shoulder. After an uncomfortably long time of searching, the guards decided that their quarry was gone, and left the square. The exhausted assassin collapsed gratefully onto the nearest bench, sweaty and panting.

"Grazie, signorre..." he sighed, breathing heavily and wiping blood from his mouth with a sleeve.

"You ought to find a dottore. That cut looks serious…" the man advised worriedly, glancing over his shoulder, though he seemed more worried about his oranges than Ezio.

"You ought to get the hell out of here." he said with a grin. However, on seeing the merchant's disappointed expression, he reached into his coin purse and pulled out a handful of silver florins. "For your troubles, amici mio. I hope that this will be sufficient to pay for those oranges."

He handed the money to the awestruck man, and then dragged himself up, groaning inwardly at the pain from his shattered arm and the gash in his chest as he straightened. The trader was too busy counting the coins to notice Ezio disappear into the crowd.

Administering some pungent smelling-salts to his nostrils, Ezio breathed a sigh of relief as the throbbing in his body dulled a little, and he was able to think with a clear head. The situation was not a good one, and even with his skill, the outlook was not promising. He was dizzy, injured and couldn't defend himself should it come to a fight, not to mention he hadn't even dispatched the target.

Becoming aware of a few curious stares from the crowd he was supposed to be blending effortlessly into, he glanced down at himself, and realised belatedly that he was highly conspicuous, what with all the dried blood covering his body. Ezio waited until the group he was travelling with passed a fountain, and quickly scooped up handfuls of the sun-warmed liquid, scrubbing at his clothes until the water had a pinkish tinge and his outfit was more or less white again. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he had been observed, but saw nothing suspicious. Shaking his hands free of excess water, he resumed his careful progress among a small party of wealthy men, cursing his sloppiness.

But after a few minutes, which seemed like hours to Ezio, he began to feel drowsy in the hot sun with his face burning and his wounds coldly sucking away his strength. Once he found himself leaning on the gentleman in front, who shook him off with an irritated glance, and realised that he needed to leave the city immediately, so he could recover somewhere without fear of discovery. His robes were once again becoming saturated with blood from the cut along his ribs, making him more and more obvious with each minute. A small child suddenly shouted, pointing with a chubby finger in his direction. Heads began to turn, curious eyes strafing the crowd. Guards milled around, hefting large axes. Ezio began to panic, his normal quiet composure all but gone. Nearing a ladder, he broke cover, climbing it as fast as he could with one arm. Shouts down below made his heart sink; he had been spotted. Already.

Stones came whistling through the air, the majority bouncing with a clang off his armour, or hitting the walls around him with small puffs of plaster. Ezio had almost reached the top when a lucky shot struck him on the back of the head with a sickening crack. A crimson burst filled his head, and with a gasp, he threw himself over the top of the ladder like a landed fish. Warmth began to seep into the back of his jerkin, and he gritted his teeth to stop himself from throwing up. The nausea blinded him, but he knew he had to move quickly. Painfully, he began to crawl along the roof, a pathetic sight compared to his brilliance and agility only that morning. He couldn't take much more of this; trained killer though he was, a man he remained.

Through a haze of pain, Ezio dimly heard the guards nearing the top of the ladder. He had to disappear, and there was only one option left to him. Spotting a balcony decorated with cushions and tubs of flowers a floor below him, he tensed his muscles and rolled off the roof. The assassin hit the floor, the impact jarring his frame and causing him to lose consciousness for a while.

When Ezio came to, he could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit. He was safe, but for how long? His condition was deteriorating at a rapid rate, and he was unsure whether to try and move on, or to keep lying down and conserving his energy. His injuries flared fiercely as he attempted to stand, and he collapsed back down on to his side. Perhaps the latter then.

Blood oozed from his chest and from under his hair, beginning to form an ominous dark pool of his life-blood. Darkness clutched at his heart and Ezio found himself reaching out to it, beckoning it to come nearer. His blood-spattered eyes began to close, and he fought it madly with all his remaining strength, but it was not enough. The fading evening sun gleamed off the terracotta tiles of Il Duomo, casting a perfect reflection in his own blood, and he laughed weakly to himself. The last thing Ezio saw was a shadowy figure appearing on the balcony and standing over him, and then his head sank down into the view of the scarlet cathedral.


	2. Slapped Upside The Head

Desmond opened his eyes to the sound of wailing klaxons and various important-looking lights flashing aggressively. He sat up in surprise, yanking the rubber contacts off his head. He stared at the Animus team racing around him, typing urgently, shouting at each other and generally panicking in every way.

"Scusi?" he said. Nobody seemed to have heard over the sirens. He also realised that he had spoken in Italian, which was kind of weird. He tried again in English, loudly. "Excuse me! I might be mistaken, but some kind of nuclear war seems to be breaking out in here. Can someone please stop running and tell me what the hell is going on?" The words felt awkward in his mouth, but at least the team appeared to have heard him. Someone turned off the loud noise, for which he was grateful, and a deep, peaceful silence descended upon the room, save Rebecca returning to her perpetual typing. Lucy glanced awkwardly at her colleagues, and began to explain.  
"Um, Desmond, we've been experiencing -"

"-slight technical difficulties. Etcetera, etcetera, so on and so forth…" cut in Shaun, impatiently. "The details would bore you out of your tiny mind, but in layman's terms, the computer did a woopsie. So if you would like to lie back down; we can get restarted, and then maybe we can get this whole sorry mess finished before Christmas."

Lucy rolled her eyes, and shoved Shaun away. "Hey, go make some tea or something." The researcher adjusted his designer glasses and frowned, and then slouched off muttering to himself about Americans.

"Lucy, che cosa nascondete da me?" Desmond said, and then clapped a hand to his mouth, widening his eyes. "Why..?"

"Don't be alarmed." she said, looking alarmed. "Shaun was just trying to protect you, in his own surly, arsehole's way. Due to some very strange glitches affecting the system, you are experiencing the bleeding effect to an unexpected level. It could be an attempt to sabotage us, but… I've never seen anything like it..."

"É ... Is it just l'italiano? O- Or is there anything else you need to tell me about?" It was unnerving trying to speak English, not least because he hadn't even spoken one word of Italian before entering the Animus 2.0.

"Well, we're not sure quite how far it extends, but it is possible that you may mirror the injuries of your ancestor after his little scuffle. But I'll need to examine you to be sure. Arms up!"

Desmond complied, but found to his dismay that a deep seated pain in his chest prevented him from raising them any higher than his shoulders. He screwed up his eyes as a tearing sensation ripped through his body, and promptly dropped his arms with a yelp.

The technician grimaced sympathetically, and pulled his white jersey up herself, revealing his lean torso. At first glance, she saw nothing amiss. However, she looked a little closer, and observed with interest an odd twitch above his stomach.

"Rebecca, pass me the medical scanner please." A small futuristic-looking metal box was duly handed to her, and she leaned in to sweep it back and forth across his body. It beeped mysteriously, and Desmond craned his neck to peer at the tiny blue screen, but Lucy held it away from him.

"Hey, what gives?!" he asked, indignant, and also becoming increasingly worried. "Let me see that!" The assassin lunged at it, but swore loudly as the inexplicable pain blazed through him again. Unbalanced, he crashed forward off the animus and onto the floor.

"Desmond, stay still!" cried Lucy, kneeling down and pressing down on his back to prevent him from rising. Prostrate on the cold tiles, strange images began to swirl through Desmond's head. A white horse galloped along the corridor, and a horde of soldiers in red armour chased after it, barrelling through the doors and heading straight for him. It was all so confusing! Which images were real? He leapt up, his senses alert, and picked up the nearest blunt object to hand. Smashing it over the helmeted head of the first man, he vaulted a bench and tackled another. Someone punched him hard in the back while he was occupied, and he fell forward. This pain was definitely real, and so he began to take his life a whole lot more seriously; deciding that he was outnumbered and that it was definitely time to go. He began to run, dodging the blows and projectiles aimed at him, successfully making it down into a secluded alley more or less unscathed. Just as he was catching his breath, a sharp stab in his upper arm made him double over. The assassin turned to lash out, but found his arms wouldn't obey him. A moment later, his legs mutinied too, and he collapsed heavily with all his limbs flopping.

The soldiers closed in, shouting something over and over. One dealt him a vicious backhand in the face, and the others repeated it, chanting and slapping until his mind and body were overwhelmed.

"Desmond? Desmond? Are you with us? How many fingers am I holding up? What day is it?" came a hysterical voice. Some scuffling and mild violence followed, and then a clearer voice interrupted.

"Desmond, snap out of it, you idiot. You're not fooling anyone; we can all see your eyelids twitching."

Desmond opened his eyes hesitantly, afraid of what he might find. Blinking in the bright strip lighting, he found that the sight was relatively normal; Rebecca bouncing in a corner and Shaun standing over him looking disapproving, though unusually dishevelled.

"Oh… Was someone hitting me?" he said blearily, feeling immensely tired in both his body and soul and far too tired to figure it all out himself. Shaun's frown deepened, though had a tinge of concern to it.

"We hadn't thought that your hallucinations would be this severe. It almost reminds me of…" he cut himself off, but Desmond already knew.

"What happened?" he asked, dread coating his words. He paused, scowling at the hypodermic needle he had just spotted lodged above his armpit. "Did you… drug me?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that." added Lucy stiffly from her desk, though Desmond couldn't quite see her as his eyes were having trouble co-operating. Wincing, he yanked out the syringe and threw it over his shoulder pointedly.

"It was necessary." said Shaun sharply. "You seemed to be under the impression that we were attacking you."

"You were!" he exclaimed angrily. "Somebody punched me, and then I got slapped upside the head. A lot!"

"And _you_ nearly killed Lucy!" the Englishman spat furiously, gesturing wildly.

Desmond stopped; his rage draining away. "I did?" He finally got his eyes to focus. The technician's face was bruised and tender-looking, and though she had obviously cleaned up, there were spots of blood around her nose, and down her lab coat. "Oh fuck. I mean… Oh no, Lucy, I'm so sorry!" He attempted to get up from his sprawled position on the floor, but his legs still had no feeling in them. Tears of frustration leaked out from under his lashes, and Desmond smacked the ground furiously with both fists.

"Hey, hey, it's ok. I'll be fine. But in future, try to restrain yourself and stay as still as you can until it passes." Lucy knelt by his side and helped him up, grasping his shoulder comfortingly. She led him down a narrow corridor he hadn't noticed before, and into a plain room with a mattress and a bare light bulb. Desmond practically threw himself on to the bed and closed his eyes wearily.

"I'll say goodnight then. Get some sleep Desmond. You'll need it."

She switched off the light, leaving Desmond in darkness.


	3. The Calming Effects Of Jasmine

Jasmine. That was it. That nagging feeling of not quite knowing was finally satisfied as he slowly breathed the heady perfume. Now a new nagging feeling replaced it. He frowned. Why was there jasmine? He didn't know, but the smell made his mouth dry, and he licked his lips to try and ease the discomfort.

"Ahh, I think someone's thirsty, si?"

This voice sounded like the perfume smelt; sweet, rich and exotic. A wet cloth was placed over his mouth, the moisture instantly refreshing and relieving his hot skin. Cool water trickled into his parched mouth, and he swallowed thickly. He became suddenly aware of a terrible pain at the back of his head, and moved his hand to feel it. A warm hand slapped his arm sharply, and he opened his eyes a tiny crack. Bright light streamed in past his lashes, illuminating sumptuous hangings, silk cushions and a curious face staring into his own.

"Mio Dio, am I dead?" he said weakly, eyes darting around, trying to absorb the sheer opulence through his slitted eyes. A rich female laugh was his reply, and with relief, he recognised it to be Paola's.

"No, Ezio, but you almost were. We were very worried about you." The smile was gone from her lined face.

"You were?" he said, bemused. "But how did I get here?"

"Well, you have your amico to thank for that. I think he is the sole reason you still breathe."

The assassin opened his drowsy eyes wide, and saw a familiar red hat loitering nervously at the foot of the wooden bed.

"Leonardo! I take it that this was no coincidenza?"

"Well, ah, actually it was." The man laughed, coming closer. "I was painting a portrait for a friend of mine, when out of the blue; _you _drop from the sky like a dead pigeon. Caused quite a stir among the household I can tell you; I was hard-pressed to get you out of there without my client beating you to a pulp for breaking and entering. I mean, more so than you already were. "

Ezio winced, and turned his attention to his body. His arm was in a wooden splint, and he wiggled his fingers experimentally. To his dismay, only his thumb and first finger could grip properly. The rest refused to co-operate, save twitching lethargically. He gaped, and waved his arm accusingly at Leonardo.

"Why can I not move my fingers?"

Leonardo brightened; sensing a lengthy scientific explanation, and then frowned, sensing an angry assassin who didn't really need to know _how _his fingers weren't moving; but _why_ no one had fixed them.

"Mi dispiace Ezio, I did what I could. But perhaps that is the least of your worries…"

The assassin groaned, and covered his face dramatically with his unbroken arm. "Fine, just tell me. All this drawing things out is quite unnecessary."

After a brief warning glance from Paola, the painter recounted a horrifyingly enthusiastic blow-by-blow account of all of Ezio's injuries, from bruises on his back to possible brain damage. With each new item, the assassin sank deeper and deeper into the mattress, his face steadily turning an unappealing shade of grey. Finally, he begged his friend to stop, and sent the pair out of the room.

Something tugged at his cheek, and he absentmindedly scratched it. His thoughts had run aground, and he stared blankly at the cracks in the ceiling. But on bringing his hand away, he saw a bead of moisture clinging to a bruised finger. More tugging, this time both at his cheeks and at his heart; and Ezio found tears trickling silently along the contours of his face.

Behind the gauzy screen across the doorway, Leonardo chewed his already ragged nails and anxiously peered through a small tear in the purple fabric. His hat was clenched tightly in the other hand, and he was absentmindedly rubbing it with his thumb.

"Paola -" he began, but the woman interrupted, grabbing his hat from his unresisting hands and nudging him away.

"Leave him be, for now."

"Si, but -"

"Listen, I understand that it may seem a little hopeless, and you are worried for him. But trust me; given enough time, he will heal." She smiled gently. "Body and soul."

The painter frowned, but then nodded slowly and turned to leave. "I think I will return tomorrow. Take care of him tonight, per favore."

"I will. And Leonardo?"

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Don't forget your cappello!" Paola grinned and tossed the little red cap at the painter, before sauntering away.

Muttering to himself, he stepped out into the midday sun, and set off hurriedly for his workshop. He had a few ideas floating about in his head, and he wanted to get them down onto paper before they flew out again.

**A/N**

Sorry, this one's a bit on the short side. More to follow though, so stay tuned


	4. Pyre

A few painful days later, the assassin was still confined to his bed, but was recovering swiftly. His bruises had faded and his skin had resumed its normal hue, though he still looked washed out and tired in the yellow glow of an oil lamp, despite the prolonged rest.

Yawning, he rolled over and grabbed a book from its place on the wicker table next to the bed, then began to flick through it in a disinterested manner. The smell of dry parchment permeated the room with each lazy flip, and Ezio breathed deeply through his nose, feeling a little gloomy. He missed the freshness of the wind past his flying arms, missed the tantalizing scents of spices and salted fish heavy in the air on market day. But most of all, he missed the freedom, to do whatever he chose to, whenever and wherever he wanted, running as tirelessly as a mountain wolf. His legs tingled at the thought and he scratched at the tight splint on his bare arm, lost in his daydreams.

He contemplated the reason why he had got into this mess in the first place, and immediately came to the obvious conclusion that someone had set him up. Whoever it was, they had hunted him, calculated his every move, and even manipulated his surroundings, coming dangerously close to capturing or killing him. He remembered the archers appearing from nowhere, and the blind alley with no handholds, and believed that it was no coincidence. Ezio ran through the ever-changing list of his enemies he carried in his head, but could find no suitable suspects. Finally, frustrated, he turned back to his book.

Dulled by days of sleep, pain killing drugs and lack of appetite, Ezio's senses weren't at their usual pinprick sharpness, and consequently he did not hear the quiet scratching at the window. Nor did he notice the slow inwards movement of the wooden shutter being pushed inwards, or the rustling of a curtain. The first thing he knew of the intruders was the throwing knife that unexpectedly sprouted out of his left shoulder with a soft thump.

He glanced up in surprise, barely registering the pain, and rolled gracelessly out of bed as a handful of figures dressed in robes of pure black poured in through the window. More throwing knives thrown with pinpoint accuracy pinned him to the wall by his flapping bandages, and Ezio was astonished to find that they were identical to the ones in his belt. In his belt.

Ezio could have slapped himself; his assassin's clothes were folded up neatly in a chest in Paola's room. Along with all his other weapons, even his hidden blades; which he would have kept on, except he had found that they wouldn't fit over his bandages.

Though he may have been weaponless, Ezio was far from defenceless. Spinning, he simultaneously freed himself from the wall and delivered a vicious kick to the stomach of one of his attackers. He ducked a flashing blade which sailed over his head and smashed the glass lamp, showering the room with silvery splinters and drops of flaming oil. Ezio grabbed the remains of the lantern and hurled it at the figures advancing on him, with satisfyingly explosive results. Several of them caught fire as the hot oil splashed onto their dark robes, which then dripped like a fiery waterfall onto the wooden floor, and set that alight too.

The assassin was tiring quickly; his muscles had lain unused for a while, he was slowly choking on the smoke from the oily flames, and he also had a knife sticking out of his body which was bleeding rather heavily. Why had nobody heard the disturbance? He wondered, dodging a spiked mace and then sinking a fist hard into the startled face. At the very least, why hadn't they seen the thick smoke that was now billowing from the open window?

At least it gave him a little cover, which was something to be grateful for. Ezio sank to the floor behind a cabinet, trying not to cough. His eyes streamed, but he scanned the room for an unguarded escape route. The black figures had a few of their number lying senseless on the floor, but other than that, five still remained, searching doggedly for him.

"Cinque…" he whispered, mentally steeling himself.

"Sei, realmente!" said a voice behind him, and then something heavy collided with his recently healed head wound. Ezio groaned and shut his eyes as a crushing dizziness enveloped him and the burning room started to spin giddily. He dimly sensed his legs bouncing over each step as he was dragged unceremoniously down the staircase by his arms, and screamed as he felt the broken bones in his arm grate together. Mercifully he blacked out soon afterwards.

* * *

The six mysterious people carried Ezio's motionless body out of the burning building, as pedestrians gathered to watch the spectacle of flames fifteen feet high shooting out of the crumbling building.

"Make way!" the lead figure called, shoving the concerned onlookers out of the way.

"Somebody fetch the dottore!" a woman cried on seeing the assassin's blackened clothes. She tried to get a little closer.

"Silenzio, voi prostitute!" the black-robed figure growled, pushing past her. Eventually, the citizens got the message, and backed off to gape at the fire. Unheeded by the guards who were helping to put out the blaze, his captors sneaked Ezio out of the city gates. They draped him over a horse, and then rode away in a cloud of dust.

Three horses were left behind to snort and stamp as they realised their masters weren't coming.

A.N

Sei, realmente = six, actually!


	5. Black Out

Ezio had half expected to smell jasmine again upon waking, but unfortunately it was not to be. Instead, he regained consciousness in a damp, airless cell, chained to a cold stone wall with the smell of mildew and damp straw heavy in his nostrils. He moved his head slightly to absorb his surroundings, and experienced a jolt of agony down his spine so bad he leaned over and threw up all over the straw. He'd thought the pain would be bad, but this was at a whole new level; he hardly knew where it stopped and he began.

Distantly, he heard somebody shouting, and carefully raised his head, sticky bile dripping from his scarred lip. On seeing a young woman standing outside the bars of his cell, his heart leapt, and his naturally scheming mind went into overdrive. Perhaps he could bribe her, or ensnare her… Ezio smiled hopefully as their eyes met; hers gentle and dark, his own full of pain, but she quickly turned away with disgust written all over her face. The assassin blinked in confusion, and then grimaced as he wiped his mouth, noticing he was still wearing only his nightclothes and bandages.

Gasping, he sat back up and rested against the slime-streaked wall. Not exactly what a woman looks for in a lover, he reflected glumly. Evidently no one else here liked him very much either, as nobody had bothered to remove the throwing knife embedded in his shoulder. He chewed his lip for a moment as he debated whether to leave it in and hope for the best, or to pull it out and possibly keel over from the blood loss later on. The assassin opted for the latter, and without letting his rational mind catch up with his reasoning, he yanked the blade from his muscle. Ezio bit down hard on his tongue as he tried his best not to cry out; he wouldn't give his captors the satisfaction, if he could at all help it.

"Figlio di una cagna!" he swore loudly, not bothering to keep his voice down simply because it hurt too much to think. If Maria Auditore had been there to hear him, she would have surely washed his mouth out with carbolic soap, and most likely given him a sound beating. Smiling a little at the thought, Ezio scrutinized the manacles and chain fastening both his wrists to the wall. All he could discern were that they were very strong, very thick, and very new. Not even a drop of blood sullied the gleaming metal, and there were plenty of those. His enemies weren't taking any chances, he supposed listlessly, trying to staunch the flow of blood using his bounds hands, and failing.

"Oh, giorni felici…" he muttered.

After a while, Ezio slid down the wall in exhaustion, too tired to think properly.

A few hours later, the cell door was unlocked, and one of the black-cloaked figures entered. The bound assassin glanced up dully, hazel eyes glazed.

"What now?" he said indistinctly, spitting out a mouthful of clotted blood that was making it hard to talk.

"I am told you need un dottore."

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. Vaffunculo, you cretino."

"All you need to do is co-operate a little with us, Ezio. It won't take long." The voice was smooth and lyrical, and Ezio found himself nodding.

Irritated, he snapped, "What do you want, bastardo?"

"It's very simple; you tell us the answer to whatever we ask you, and in return we give you food, and if you're lucky, some bandages. I really would advise you to; that wound looks nasty."

"Vada ad inferno. I'm not telling you anything."

"Have it your way then. I will return at the same time tomorrow. Don't disappoint me, novice."

Ezio spat and made a crude gesture with one hand. He knew it was extremely childish, and that he should be maintaining the higher moral ground, but frankly, he couldn't care less.

His antagonist turned and stalked out with an air of impatience, and the assassin suddenly noticed the very feminine walk. How did a mere woman get to be the head of a militant faction? He shouldn't have allowed himself to be intimidated by the fairer sex!

Ezio's bemused mind suddenly stalled, and reversed very rapidly. Novice? That rang a bell, but he couldn't quite remember where he had heard it before.

The assassin struggled to put the few pieces of the puzzle he had together, but his mind couldn't seem to hold onto any one thought for very long. After all the political missions, conspiracy theories and webs of lies he had hacked his way through, and he couldn't handle the motives behind a localised kidnapper? He sighed, and resigned himself to a long night.

The next day dawned bright and cold, with a gentle shower of rain, but Ezio wasn't there to see it. His cell was cramped and dingy, letting in little light save one tiny beam streaming through a crack in the stonework. The assassin stared up at it hungrily, seeing that it was just above his head. He raised a hand slowly, and let the gleam play across his bruised fingers. For a long time, he did nothing else. He just sat on the cold floor, watching the slow waltzing of dust through the softly illuminated air. The day began to wane, and the assassin slowly moved his body around to face the shaft of fading light as it completed its measured revolution around the tiny room.

Finally, the cheerful yellow light vanished completely, throwing the room into deep grey shadow. But by then, Ezio was in a bad way and had blacked out, ironically, just as it went dark. During the previous night, the knife wound had become swollen and inflamed, weeping a clear liquid mixed with blood.

The gaoler visited soon after, but she was somewhat disappointed, in that interrogation usually requires both participants to be fully conscious. The deep hood concealed an irritated exhalation as the assassin twitched and moaned in the beginnings of a fever.

"Oh merda…" She stretched out an expensive-looking boot embellished with lots of shiny buckles, and solidly prodded Ezio in the ribs. He muttered a little, but didn't stir.

"Fine, I will fetch il medico maledetto. I can't have you dying on me; you're all we've got right now."

Soon, she returned with the woman Ezio had seen at his window.

She clicked her tongue exasperatedly, and proceeded to sponge off the accumulated grime and blood of the past few days, while her leader watched with a fidgety silence. After she had carefully cleaned and dried the area around his shoulder, the doctor brought out a curved bone needle and a length of thread from her bag. Wincing in a very unprofessional manner, she pressed the point hard into his skin, and pushed it up through his flesh several times, until an untidy row of stitches puckered the skin where there had once been a gaping red mouth. The two women unrolled and cut fresh white bandages to different lengths, and replaced Leonardo's stained handiwork.

The doctor stood, bowing respectfully. "Mi dispiaci, I have done what I can. The fever won't dissipate immediately, but I will observe him for a few days to see if his condition improves."

She paused in her breakdown for a moment to glance heatedly at her companion.

"You didn't need to let it get this far."

"Perhaps not. But now we know his strengths, and we won't underestimate him again."

"Oh si, of course, because that worked so well last time. How many of our people died in the raid?"

There was an awkward silence.

"Why don't you just tell him why he is here, and be done with it? He may even want to help our cause, and might willingly give up information. If he still refuses to tell us, it matters not. We won't have lost anything. " said the doctor, raising her eyebrows.

The leader shook her hooded head slowly, and got up to leave. "I will think about it."

The healer remained with Ezio for a while, dabbing his brow with a cool cloth straight from the ice cellar. She knew it was a futile gesture and wouldn't really bring his burning temperature down much, but it made her feel better. At least she was trying to do something right. Unlike someone she knew…

**A.N**

Giorni felici = Happy days

Figlio-di-a -femmina! = son of a bitch

Vada ad inferno = go to hell

Medico maledetto = Damned Doctor :)

I got these from yahoo translator, so please tell me if they're wrong! :P


	6. Desmond Loses It Again

Desmond blinked as the fog cleared from his tired brain. Strong yellow rays of sunshine were filtering in through the clinical venetian blinds, telling him that he should be still in a comatose state, and not enjoying the weather.

"What's up, Becca?" He said, sitting up slowly from the animus. "Tell me it's not the fucking bleeding effect again? Make my day, huh?"

The room was stiflingly hot and perspiration beaded the skin of everyone in the room, including his own, he noticed with distaste.

Rebecca was half in and half out of a cupboard overflowing with wires and bits of machines, and her only reply was to wave a half-eaten sandwich in his general direction.

"Nah, you're alright mate, it's just a bit too hot for the machines. Oh, and we thought you might enjoy an afternoon off." Shaun gave an odd half smile over his shoulder. "So go and rest, cry in the corner; do whatever it is you do in your free time. Only make sure you do it quietly." He jabbed furiously at his keyboard and swore.

Desmond laughed shortly. "Looks like someone's been doing some hacking." He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and mooched off towards his room.

After half an hour of napping sprawled sideways across the mattress, Desmond woke to find himself inexplicably stiff. He yawned, and decided he was bored, and so wandered back into the animus room to find something to do. Each member of the team looked, without exception, incredibly overheated and busy. The assassin shrugged, and came over to the research desk to bother Shaun.

"Heeeyy. Hey Shaun. Shaun. Shaun? Shauny? Shaunius? Hastings? Shaaaauuuuunnn!?"

Finally, the irritated man turned and shouted, "WHAT IS IT DESMOND? In case you haven't noticed, I AM RIDICULOUSLY BUSY!"

Desmond blinked, and then grinned. "Can I read one of your books?"

He ducked and ran as Shaun turned a violent shade of purple and threw a stapler at his feeling back with an inarticulate shout of rage; his assassin skills for once helping him in a contemporary situation.

The assassin amused himself for a while stapling various valuable old documents together, and then promptly left when Shaun began to turn disturbingly green and muscular, and very, very angry.

Rejected and fed up, Desmond burned off some of his energy swinging around inside the empty warehouse. In his mind, he was solving the riddle of an assassin's tomb. Next he was racing a thief along the rooftops of Venezia. Then he was scaling an ornate campanile, leaping like a daredevil off the edge into the waiting pile of hay.

Crack.

Desmond's head hit the concrete floor hard. From his lying down position, he sighed.

Bloody illusions.

He hauled his wobbly body up the steps to the animus room, to a chorus of exasperated wails.

"Oh Desmond, what happened this time?"

"Gee, Desmond you look messed up. Want me to fetch the tranquilizers again?"

"Desmond, you complete and utter stupid bastard."

This last acid remark from Shaun cut him right to the core.

"I can't believe this. You're paying attention to me now? What happened to 'Let's ignore subject 17, he's lonely and bored, but we only need his brain to find out where the pieces of Eden are'?"

Rebecca roared with laughter, but Lucy looked as if she was about to cry.

"Lonely?"

Desmond looked at his trainers. "Yeah."

"But you've got us."

"I know. But everything you do is all Animus this, Templars that, Ezio this, Altaїr that. If you and the good doctor hadn't plucked from my nice, sociable life, and started experimenting with my memories, I would still be working in my pub."

The other three stared at him blankly.

"With my friends! Or customers, colleagues, whatever you'd like to call them. The most serious thing we'd ever discuss is who would win the football. Now everyday I have to deal with hidden blades, trauma, death, the impending destruction of the world. I don't know. Stuff like that. And on top of that, I even get fucking hallucinations, which make it impossible for me to be left alone. Thanks a lot guys."

Desmond absently smacked his fist into his palm in frustration, and everyone else took a step back.

"Hey, hey, Des, calm it." said Rebecca warily, with her hands raised. She had stopped laughing.

"No, I will NOT 'calm it'! I have been mistreated, injected, stabbed, shot at, and experimented on like a fucking monkey." He jabbed his fingers, counting each one. " I spend my day with my head plugged in to a socket, brutally murdering people in my sleep. The only thing I have to look forward to each day is going back to sleep on a skanky old mattress in a prison cell. You think I should be fucking calm?" Blue veins pulsed at his temple, and his body shook with barely controlled ferocity. He looked like a bear that has been made to dance on the end of a chain for too long.

Lucy made a move towards him, but Shaun suddenly grabbed her around the waist. His face was a tight mask of urgency as he shoved the woman behind him.

"Get back, Rebecca. Now."

Desmond's fingers were opening and closing aggressively, as if seeking a throat to close around. His pupils had dilated massively, covering most of his neutral grey irises. His head swam, and his eagle vision was blurring in and out.

Grey.

Blue.

Blue.

Grey.

Red.

The assassin leapt forward, grabbing a chair and swinging it smoothly at Shaun's unprotected face. The metal legs smashed his glasses, and then continued on to solidly bounce off his skull. The historian was knocked flying from the sheer force of the blow, straight into the wall. The women shrieked and rushed to his side, staring in fear at the sudden change in Desmond. Amazingly, he lurched to his feet, blood trickling from the cuts left by the splinters of broken glass.

"Des… Desmond. Stop this. Stop this immediately. You're not helping. Are you just going to let this thing take you?"

For answer, Subject 17 snapped his head up to fix Shaun with a curious stare, much like a hunting animal views a tasty morsel. His black eyes blazed and he stalked closer.

"You're giving in to this delusion without even a struggle? That's not the Desmond I know. The Desmond I know would have fought this off with every drop of strength he had."

The assassin cocked his head. Blood was running down his cheek from where he had fallen earlier, and he slowly licked the scarlet bead from his lips, smiling horrifyingly.

"Desmond Miles, you will snap out of it this instant! You are a rational man. Come back to us."

Shaun panted, eyes wide, praying the sound of his voice would filter into Subject 17's temporal lobes and re-orientate his hippocampus to the correct time and place. Or something. He considered making a break for the medicine cabinet to grab the tranquilizers, but before he could, something rippled across the assassin's face. Was it fear? Recognition? Whatever it was, Desmond began to shudder violently. He covered his face with his hands and howled; a base, animalistic cry of anguish, and then collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

Shaun wiped his face clean with a handkerchief, and pulled on another pair of spectacles from an inside pocket. He extended a hand to Desmond who ignored him, absorbed as he was in pulling strands of his own hair out.

"Come on you" Shaun said softly. "The Desmond I know doesn't wallow in self-pity for long. He's too much of a hard man for that."

The assassin snorted, and smiled despite himself. He grasped Shaun's hand and pulled himself up.

Desmond eyed the destruction around the room and scratched his nose.

"Dammit. Next time, why don't you tie me up or something?"

"Okay, well next time, I'll be ready. With a gun."

"Like you'd have the guts to shoot me, Hastings."

"More like your guts, all over the floor."

The two men glared daggers at each other.

Lucy waved frantically from behind Desmond, making sharp cutting movements across her neck.

"…Sorry Des, that was childish of me." Shaun admitted grudgingly.

"S'alright.. I'm sorry too. For, uhh -" Desmond gestured sheepishly at the mess of broken glass and tangled chairs surrounding them. Shaun scowled at him.

"Time for a nice cup of tea I think." said Rebecca brightly, breaking the thick glacial ice.

A/N

This was fun to write I love humour, but equally I love angst-fuelled killing sprees. Heh. I tried to balance them in this chapter, but it went a bit wrong. Ah well. I'm sorry! It won't happen again! XD

*dodges bricks and flaming arrows*


	7. Gaol Break

BOOM!

Ezio was hurled across the room, startled from his fitful sleep as the deafening sound of an explosion rang in his ears. Dust showered down from the cracked ceiling of the cell, and enveloped the room in a pale cloud.

Fireworks? At this time of the day? He wondered, sneezing and then clutching the sides of his throbbing head.

As the fine particles cleared, light slowly poured into the cell like golden honey; oozing through a large hole in the thick wall. Through the hole stepped-

"Leonardo!" he cried, struggling to get up and greet his friend. Tiny pieces of rubble tumbled off his shoulders and out of his matted hair. He began to stumble towards the inventor, but was jerked back by the chains bolted to the wall. Ezio scowled, and shook the heavy links in frustration.

"Ezio! Mio amico! It grieves me to see you in such a sorry state. But then again, it's nothing new, is it?" Leonardo touched his friend's bandaged shoulder lightly with an expression of sorrow. "Come, let us get away from this place. It won't take long for us to be discovered; in fact, I'm rather surprised we haven't been already. "

The assassin nodded, but jangled his bonds again. "But what about these?"

"Aha! I can deal with that the same way I got in."

Ezio raised an eyebrow. "And how did you get in, exactly?"

"Ahh, well, you see I was experimenting with some very interesting acids in my workshop, and discovered that the addition of a little common soap made a powerful explosive."

"Whoa, whoa. Stop! You mean you're going to use the same thing that made that -" he pointed at the six foot smoking crater in the midst of the solid stone wall. "- near me?" He waved his wrists, which looked strangely frail without their customary hidden blade and bracer clothing them.

Leonardo paused, and shrugged. "Si."

A look of horror plastered itself across Ezio's face.

"Would it hurt you to send me a file once in a while, like everyone else does in gaol breaks?"

The inventor tried to reassure him, unsuccessfully, as usual. "But if I get the quantities right, the metal will simply snap. Probably snap. Though it might explode too… There is a very small chance of that occurring."

T he assassin sighed, and rubbed his tired eyes. "Just do it, Leo. I won't blame you if I lose an arm or something."

He nodded slowly, and began to measure out different liquids from inside his belt pouch, which he then poured into something that appeared to be a piece of a bath sponge inside a pewter thimble, which he wedged into the end of the chain. The inventor caught his alarmed glance and said sheepishly, "Si, I know. You life rests on a humble piece of sewing kit. Mi dispiaci, I had run out of test tubes."

The assassin laughed shortly and swallowed as Leonardo began to strike sparks onto the short length of twine serving as a fuse. He was sweating badly; his palms were wet. He hated always being the test subject for Leonardo's new "toys". First the "repaired" hidden blade which had sprung open wildly in his face when he had tried to use it; then the disastrous attempt at flying which nearly drowned him, and now brand-new, untried explosives.

"Ora, I want you to get as far away from it as possible. Rapidamente!" He said, running back to the gap in the wall holding his hat tight over his ears. Ezio screwed up his eyes and strained the chain as taut as he could pull it to get away from the explosive. After a few seconds with nothing happening, he peeked under his lashes at the smoking capsule.

At that moment, the cell door crashed open, and the female doctor burst in, surrounded by her associates. They were all armed to the teeth with an amazing assortment of weapons, from broad cutlasses to elegant stilettos, and Ezio mentally calculated how long it would take the women to kill the pair of them. The answer was depressing.

"You!" she said, staring at Leonardo in surprise.

"Me?" he replied, worriedly peering at his fizzling invention around the wall.

Which is when the little device exploded.

For the second time in the space of a few minutes, the assassin found himself thrown through the air. However, this time he flew a lot further, narrowly scraping past the crumbled sides of Leonardo's previous experiment. Luckily for him, his cell had been built on the outside of the building he had been imprisoned in, and so his landing was cushioned by thick green grass. That's not to say it didn't hurt.

Ezio lay stunned on his back, staring up at the black smoke billowing from the small building.

His ears were ringing again, and he could feel something trickling down his face, but he was definitely alive. And most certainly free, though his hands were still tied together.

The assassin staggered to his feet yet again, and located a charred Leonardo sprawled in a shrub.

"Come on!" He shouted, over-compensating for his temporary hearing loss. After rolling out of the bush, the inventor led him to a slender tree where two horses were whinnying and pulling frantically at their tethers, frightened by the explosion. As Ezio made to climb on his horse, he was suddenly overcome with fatigue, and swayed on his feet. He panicked, grabbing the bridle.

"Leo…" he rasped, attracting his friend's attention as he slid down the horse's smooth white flank.

The inventor immediately took in how exhausted and ill-looking the assassin was, and gave him a boost up so that Ezio could easily swing himself around without bending too much.

He gasped, and slumped over the neck of the animal. His vision was swimming, purple spots dancing behind his retinas; he'd pushed his body to its limit over the last week and now he was paying for it.

Leonardo clicked his teeth and rode off, Ezio's horse following dutifully, to his relief. It seemed the assassin was in bad physical shape, and was now operating on his last reserves of strength. With this in mind, the inventor rummaged in the bouncing saddlebags and pulled out a crusty ciabatta; fresh baked that very morning, but sadly bashed about and misshapen.

"Catch!" He tore it in two, and tossed one at Ezio, whose manacled hands managed to reflexively catch it. The assassin blearily looked around for a second, wondering where the thing had come from. Then his eyes settled on the bread, and he began to eat ravenously; tearing great chunks out of it and wolfing them down without even chewing.

Leonardo eyed his friend's sunken cheeks, and decided to forgo his own meal; instead, wordlessly passing it over once the first half was finished.

They rode for a while and made good progress, travelling at a fast pace as Leonardo feared they were being pursued. Soon huge purple mountains loomed in the distance, through the haze of heat and spiralling cyprus trees as the horses crested a hill, and Leonardo saw the terracotta smudge of Florence at the bottom.

"Ezio, I can see bella Firenze! We are almost there" he called over the clatter of hooves on the dry gravel. He spurred his horse on a little, excited by the prospect of shade and wine, but there was no answer from Ezio. He appeared to have fallen behind, and was out of earshot.

Leonardo was forced to wheel his horse around and canter back, and he came across his friend throwing up noisily into a ditch. Leonardo winced, biting his lip. He saw a sheen of sweat across the man's forehead, and resolved to slacken the punishing pace slightly when he had finished.

The assassin wiped his mouth, cringing at the acidic taste coating his tongue, and staggered over to a large crooked olive tree nearby. He sat down against its grey bark and closed his eyes.

"Ezio, you can't sleep now! We need to keep moving. Come on." Leonardo said urgently. He walked his horse a little closer, and jumped off athletically.

"But Leonardo, I need to rest. I am tired." he replied, frowning with his eyes shut.

The inventor sighed in exasperation. "I came to all this trouble to rescue you, but now you're hindering us both. So, per l'amore del dio, get up!"

Ezio groaned and rubbed his eyes, but complied grudgingly; walking his hands backwards up the tree.

"Mi dispiaci, I wasn't thinking straight. My… head hurts."

"Do you think you can ride?"

"I'll try, but I can't promise anything."

Leonardo helped him to get back in the blistering saddle of the mare, where he rigidly held himself upright. A bead of perspiration rolled down his skin, and quickly evaporated in the hot sun. Ezio gritted his teeth as they began to move again, trying to control his stomach as the swaying of the moving animal repeatedly unbalanced him. After enduring this discomfort for a while, he asked Leonardo for something to drink.

The inventor scowled at him, but drew out an engraved flask from his innermost saddlebag and passed it grudgingly over. He unscrewed the silver top and drank deeply from the proffered bottle, and soon the nausea vanished. Whether this was because the fortified wine had miraculous healing properties, or because it made him light-headed and giggly, no one will ever know.

But eventually, the two exhausted horses and the equally tired men found themselves at the city entrance, and it was with great relief that they collapsed into the welcoming embrace of a warmly glowing inn.

**A.N**

Sorry I took so long to post this. You know, exams and whatnot ;)

Hope you like it!


	8. Purple?

Desmond suspiciously sipped at his hot tea and made a face. To be perfectly honest, he was more of a coffee person. Or a beer person. Or indeed an "any form of stimulant" person. To combat this unfortunate turn of events, he reached for a biscuit from the tin in the middle of the table.

Shaun watched him from his own leather chair with eagle eyes, pensively dunking a custard cream into his mug. As Rebecca came back up to the seating area carrying a small cardboard box, the end of the biscuit broke off and sank into the brown liquid, but the historian didn't seem to notice.

"Right guys, here's what we're gonna do. Here's some paper, pens, and stuff." She passed around some torn off sheets and plonked herself down on a squashy chair, grabbing her mug and gulping at its contents.

"So today - Ughh, Shaun, what the heck did you put in this? It tastes like cat pee!"

Shaun huffed and folded his arms. "It's Earl Grey. Just because you prefer fizzy pop and cola, doesn't mean the rest of us can't enjoy a nice civilized brew."

He looked around for support. Neither Desmond nor Lucy could meet his eyes with a straight face. Rebecca snickered.

"I guess that's sorted. Shaun is no longer allowed anywhere the kitchen. Period."

"That's absolutely fine with me Becca, I won't have to be your little scullery maid anymore." The historian sighed. He did rather like hiding Rebecca's numerous energy drinks, and then gleefully watching the ensuing panic as her caffeine levels dropped dramatically.

Lucy coughed, and waited for eyes to fall upon her.

"Basically, we're going to be talking about you Desmond. But I'd like you to be here, to put forward your opinions, so try to keep an open mind."

Desmond narrowed his eyes, and automatically began to doodle on the corner of his paper. He sensed a lecture coming on.

"Right. And why will you be talking about me?" He said, sketching the skyline of Venice.

"Desmond, were you even present half an hour ago? Your mental state is … precarious, to say the least. The least little thing could tip you over the edge."

The assassin snorted. "But I'm fine. A bit irritable, maybe. You just need to let me sleep more."

Shaun leaned forward in astonishment, fixing Desmond with his best withering stare. "Did I… just hear that? We're running out of time here. Every second counts. The good doctor could come knocking at any moment, and all you want to do is sleep. I can bloody understand why he got angry with you."

He took off his glasses and began polishing them with his shirt, letting the heat in his cheeks fade slightly. "Lucy, can't we just knock him on the head, and run the Animus that way? It would be a bloody lot safer for everyone."

Desmond tightened his fists around his cup, but remained silently glowering at the blond man.

"Shaun, stop being so grouchy. You know full memory synchronisation happens best when the patient is aware, and anyway, Desmond is a valuable asset to the team. If Vidic finds us, actually, make that _when_ he finds us, we will need all the muscle we have."

"Hey Lucy, you forgot to mention that I like being conscious!" Desmond chipped in, waggling his biro at her.

Lucy smiled wryly. "Of course you do Des, but you have to understand our dilemma. We'd prefer you awake, but if you become a danger to us, we would have to sedate you. We can't risk you jeopardizing this operation."

Desmond nodded his head in acceptance. What she said made sense, of course it did. But he was a little frightened at the thought that at any point, someone could turn him into an oblivious sack of meat. "This might sound stupid, but, could you use, like, a code word or something? For when I'm becoming "a danger"?"

Rebecca beamed. "That's a great idea! What about antidisestablishmentarianism? I'd frickin' kill to be able to use that word in a casual sentence! Or maybe kumquat? Sagittarius? Moist?"

He'd been drinking his tea, and he coughed and spluttered as he began to laugh. "M-moist! Okay everyone, when I start to go insane, just shout "MOIST" at me." A tear rolled down his cheek.

Even Shaun's pokerface twitched.

They parted in high spirits; Rebecca to her baby, Shaun to his books and Lucy to her desk. However, the assassin remained slumped lazily in his armchair like a contented cat. He'd finished his drawing of the rooftops of Venice, and was rather pleased with how it had turned out. Taking up his biro again, he doodled a small figure leaping from a tower; arms outstretched and unafraid, silhouetted against the setting sun on the water. Bellisimo. Desmond leaned in closer, trying to pick out the details of the clothing. Sword, daggers, a swinging belt. All was as it should be.

And yet.

Those robes seemed different somehow. Though the figure was only a few millimetres in length, Desmond realised that it was not Ezio in the picture he'd drawn. Nor was it Giovanni Auditore in his youth, or any member of the Renaissance Brotherhood. He glanced furtively around him. The other three were busy working, and paid him no attention. He looked back at the paper, and blinked in shock when he saw that the figure had moved. It was closer to the ground; in the middle of a somersault. Desmond concentrated hard and switched to his second sight. The page was silvery grey, as expected. But the figure…

The figure glowed purple.

The assassin tried to switch back to his normal sight, but something in the picture captivated him, and held him down. He gripped the sides of the coffee table as he was drawn closer to the image. All Desmond could see was a bright purple light as the figure filled his vision. He blinked, and the world went suddenly dark.

_The world rushes to meet him as he swoops towards the ground. The soft, musty crunch tells him he is safely concealed within a pile of hay. Leaping out, he casually joins a gaggle of ale-sodden dockworkers; follows them until they turn off into an alley. He continues along the deserted dark streets, alert for every sound, eyes perpetually roving. Soon he comes to a tall, unremarkable building in the docklands. Knocks four times. He is let in by a cloaked figure, which bows reverently and then backs meekly into the shadows. Down a velvet-hung corridor, past rows of staring faces in gloriously warm oils, into a round chamber full of people. They rise as one and incline their veiled heads to him. He strides to his chair; ornately carved roses of black wood climb to meet him. With a slight gesture, the gathering is seated with barely a whisper of cloth. _

"_Mi amici, I come bearing both good and ill-news. The one we seek was finally found, a few days ago, in Firenze. He was captured, but refused to co-operate. We sought to destroy his resolve, but before the process was finished, he was rescued by another man through demonical means. Our base in the mountains was all but ruined, and many faithful were killed. The prophet is currently back in Firenze recovering. We must strike soon, mi amici, before he discovers us. Already I fear he knows too much. If we cannot retrieve what we need, he must be executed as quickly as possible. One of you must do this, though regretfully I cannot stay to decide. I have pressing business to attend to in Roma, and must leave shortly. However, know this; if you fail in this simple task, you have doomed us all to an unimaginable future filled with horror. __But you must not fail . Niente è vero. Tutto è permesso. Il profeta cadrà._

_The gathered people murmur this back. One by one, they remove their hoods. Shining hair of all colours cascades down black-robed shoulders. He places scarred, but feminine hands together, and bids his farewell. _

Desmond woke up sprawled face down on the table. His head pounded as though he'd had a dozen glasses of wine, and he discovered he was drooling slightly. He sat up with a groan and wiped his mouth. Shaun tentatively patted him on the shoulder.

"There, there?" He coloured slightly.

The assassin coughed. "Er, thanks Shaun. How long was I out?" His tongue felt fuzzy and thick.

"Only about five minutes. It's not all that bad, in the grand scheme of things."

"And what about in the small scheme of things?"

"Ah, well it's pretty bad. Any longer than a minute and you've got a problem on your hands. What was it this time?"

Desmond rubbed his eyes. "To be honest with you, I don't really know. Some secret cult thing in a spooky dark room chanting and ordering murders."

The historian raised an eyebrow, interested. "Oh? What else do you remember?"

The vision was dissipating into grey smoke behind his eyes, and he grasped desperately at the few strands he could remember. "They were all hidden in cloaks, except the leader. I was - I mean she was in some sort of assassin gear. Very convincing. Even did a leap of faith. They were all women too, I think."

Shaun almost leapt out of his seat with excitement. "Desmond, I think you may have stumbled upon some kind of historical conspiracy. Maybe even a parallel to the Assassin Brotherhood. A sisterhood maybe? Who were prepared to get what they wanted by torturing your ancestor. They were playing a bloody dangerous game, if the city death certificates are anything to go by." He whistled.

"Those people that kidnapped Ezio, they were all women. But that doesn't explained who I - he was ambushed by."

"Well they could have just bribed the guards. If Ezio could do it, so could they. But what bothers me is what they were so keen to find out."

They sat in a pondering silence for a moment; Shaun nursing another cup of Earl Grey, and Desmond massaging his temples. The historian stared searchingly at the assassin over the rim of his mug.

"You look rough mate. If I were you, I'd go and get a bit of sleep before the animus is ready."

"Thanks Shaun. Is there a reason you're being nice to me, or do you want something? I'm beginning to panic here."

He harrumphed, and went back to his desk. "If you don't like it, I can be nasty too. Anyway, I'm going to do some researching to see what I can dig up on these women. Go to bed Desmond."

He felt too drained to walk all the way down the long, echoing corridor to his room, so he flopped onto a leather sofa. Thoughts and unanswered questions buzzed around his head like flies, but he tried to ignore them, pressing his face into a cushion. Eventually, an uneasy, fitful sleep fell over him.


	9. You Butchered This Chapter

A light sleeper at the best of times, Ezio was surprised to find himself only managing to wake up at noon. Leonardo, on the other hand, was still dead to the world. One hand hung over the edge of the tattered mattress; fingers twitching as he dreamed of flight. Strange snuffling noises occasionally escaped him. Ezio got up to dress, and then rather wished he hadn't moved at all. Sniffing, he tried to forget about the large amounts of particularly good wine the inn served, and to focus on the more important tasks at hand. Like doing up his jerkin.

He swore loudly as he blearily fumbled at the unfamiliar brass buckles, but with the help of a broken mirror and a good deal of squinting, he managed to secure it.

The assassin lowered his hood over his dark, messy ponytail, and put one foot on the wooden windowsill. The patent leather brogues weren't the most practical of footwear, but then Leonardo had always had a somewhat…. interesting taste in fashion. Besides, his friend had bought the clothes at very short notice, and at least they were better than wandering around Firenze in just his bloodstained nightclothes. It had taken all his dignity and Leonardo's cloak to rent a room in front of a sniggering bartenderand a crowd of cackling semi-drunks. But then again, he'd soon joined the semi-drunks, and had found after several bottles of vino rosso_,_ it didn't matter anyway.

He looked over his shoulder and debated whether to wake his friend. He looked so peaceful; Ezio almost wished he could join him. But he had work to do, and so all he did was scribble a hasty note on the wall with a piece of charcoal from the fire.

With a swish of his ill-fitting cape, he leapt out of the window onto the neighbouring roof. Fortunately, the streets of Firenze were so cramped together you could probably take your nonna for a stroll up there, and she wouldn't once have to do anything more strenuous than totter across a beam or two.

As his battered knees absorbed the impact of his jump, he realised he might just have to take that comment to heart. He was tired from the day before, and his injuries were still raw. A twinge in his shoulder served as a painful reminder of the numerous fragile stitches holding him together, and so he resolved to take it easy.

As he walked across the hot tiles, he mentally made a list of his tasks. They were simple:

One. Find his armour and weapons.

Two. Find the ones who had imprisoned him.

Three. Dispose of them.

But in practice, he had the whole of Italia to search. He scrambled up onto his favourite haunt as a child, a small tower with a concealed roof, which he had found was ideal for hiding from Federico and his awful tickling games. He greeted each worn handhold like an old friend, and climbed more from fond memory than anything else. Getting his breath back on a well worn ledge, he remembered how Federico had used to tease him mercilessly about his constant climbing to high places. Ezio sighed. His dreams were never free of the sight of his siblings' strangled gasps and jerks at the end of the noose, and the damp crunch when his neck finally-

No! Don't think about that. Breathe. Focus on the mission.

He dropped from the tower and landed on the straw strewn cobbles with an ungainly wobble.

"Ow! Merda!" he hissed through his teeth. That was going to bruise.

No one paid him much attention as he limped through the familiar streets, and free from immediate danger, he fell to thinking of Federico again as he passed the church they had raced to climb so long ago.

"_It is a good life we lead, brother."__  
__"The best. May it never change."__  
__"And may it never change us."_

Ezio forced himself to relax and to straighten, thought it was an effort. The past was past. Buried deep in the heavy loam of time, all that lingered were the memories; a few pale roots on the surface. Nothing he could do would bring them back. He struck the wood of a solid-looking doorframe in temper as he passed, which hurt him more than it hurt the door, and served to shock him out of his reverie. Ezio cursed quietly as he walked, opening and closing the bruised fingers of his left hand.

The day was bright, and the sky, perfectly cloudless; the assassin couldn't stay miserable for long. The sunshine always buoyed his spirits; he seemed to thrive on it like a desert plant, and he soon rediscovered the strut of a man on familiar ground. The sights and sounds of Firenze, always interesting no matter what was happening, particularly held his attention today for some reason. Perhaps it was because he had been away for a while. A comically tuneless bard entertained a crowd to his right, occasionally dodging rotten fruit. A pair of aristocrats glittering like jewelled peacocks blocked his path for a moment, arrogant as ever, but so beautiful.

As he rounded a corner, he gasped. The husk of the brothel reared up, waving blackened timbers and flame-licked rafters at him in accusation. Charred scraps of pink cloth still clung desperately to broken windows.

He'd forgotten about the fire.

People were just walking by as though nothing at happened. Though to be fair, that had been the general attitude before the whorehouse was destroyed. Ezio frowned, and ducked through the collapsed front door. Tiles and flakes of plaster crackled beneath his feet; however, much of the internal structure was still in one piece. His room had been facing the street, at the far end of the second floor, but there was no way of reaching it as the wooden stairs were nothing but a pile of splinters and ashes. The assassin grinned.

No conventional way.

Gingerly, he stepped onto a pile of bricks and began to climb the mostly intact west wall. Holes from displaced mortar and boards made scaling it easy, but too often the solid-looking handholds suddenly crumbled into soot when he touched them, so he had to take more care than usual.

"Un miracolo!" he gasped, on reaching the top, arm and shoulder screaming from the abuse. A small black chest lay on the remains of the second floor, in the one corner that had survived the inferno. Perhaps the usually incompetent guards had finally done him a favour, and successfully halted the flames before they could spread to other buildings across the street.

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Ezio levered open the heat-hardened lid, and his reward was the friendly gleam of his belongings. He rummaged in it briefly to make sure that everything was there, but accidentally knocked something skittering across the floor. His eyes followed the movement, and tracked it underneath a few roof tiles. He reached in and scooped it up, and opened his dusty fist curiously. It was his necklace, nestled in amongst the fine grey ash, which was starting to blow away in the breeze.

Ezio clutched it fiercely, and then tied in its rightful place around his neck. Petruccio had made it especially for him on his sixteenth birthday.

"_Auguri_." he'd shyly whispered, before happily hugging him. His little brother would have been twenty by now. All grown up. Maybe even married.

Damn that Uberto. In a way, he was glad he had taken out his frustration on him. At the very least, that's what he had deserved. But somehow, the assassin within was still disgusted with him for disrespecting the dead man.

He donned the smoky smelling clothes and armour, and then spent some time polishing his blades with his sleeve to distract himself from the troubling thoughts. When his throwing knives were so sharp that they almost sliced open his fingers, he decided to stop.

Ezio had learnt the hard way from his experiences that morning, and as a result slid slowly down a cracked gutter; as opposed to leaping unthinkingly from the roof.

From his vantage point halfway up the building, he could see a long way. Something caught his attention on the next street. What was that….? A swish of black rounding a corner.

He reached the ground and began to jog after it, pushing people aside in his haste. He glimpsed a tapering hood and a richly embroidered belt. For a moment, the sight of his target was obscured by a large man carrying a wobbling stack of crates. He refocused on the foreground - and tripped over the man's foot.

"Ai! Watch out, cretino!"

Oh Dio, not again.

All Ezio could do was watch helplessly as the crates tumbled to the floor, and the trader began to shout at him. However, a suspicious look passed between them, and they began to laugh.

"It's you!"

"Ché coincidenza! Again, mi dispiace! This is becoming a terrible habit. Here, let me help you with those." Still chuckling, they gathered up the spilled fruit in front of some bemused condottieri who had come to investigate the disturbance. Finding that all was well, they had retreated a little way; talking in whispers amongst themselves. Though Ezio could feel their searching eyes upon him, and so he threw himself wholeheartedly into pretending not to be a wanted criminal.

He snorted, and said loudly "Only my second time in Firenze, and already I am making quite a name for myself."

Depositing an armful of oranges into the box, the merchant said thoughtfully, "Si, it seems so. Speaking of which, what _is_ your name?"

Ezio thought quickly. "Giuseppe. Giuseppe Tagliabue, at your service, signore...?"

"Contadino. I must say, that explains a lot. I did wonder why you were covered in blood and knives."

"_Perdono_?"

"Your name."

Ezio smiled like a wolf, and began to lie smoothly. "Ah, the noble profession of mi famiglia. Butchers of repute all of them; even the Medici buy from us, and it falls to me to inherit the bloody business. Last time we met, I had just had err… an unpleasant meeting with a rival butcher's boy, and the guards caught us fighting. At the moment, I just do errands, and run around doing this, that; whatever they may ask of me. But soon…"

He tapped his nose conspiratorially, and picked up the brimming box of produce.

"Signore Contadino, let me carry this for you. I must repay you for the trouble I have caused you today, and last time too."

"Ah, grazie, you have a gracious soul, butcher, despite your apparent disregard for the law! This way. And you must call me Pierro; I am not some high and mighty courtier. I probably won't chop off your head…" The man laughed laconically.

Ezio followed Pierro through Firenze and soon they came upon the market square. At the trader's instruction, he put down the heavy crate with relief next to an almost empty stall. He massaged his aching shoulders and looked around the sleepy square he had found himself in. A woman stood behind the counter, her face listless as she waited for customers that didn't seem to be coming. The merchant sighed and slipped his arms around her waist.

"Giuseppe, meet my wife Flora. Flora, this is Giuseppe, disturber of peace and an excellent baggage handler, if I may say so."

Ezio brushed aside the compliment. "Charmed. But tell me, is it always this busy?"

"Ah, there are so many stalls here now. Why would they come to us, when just over there is a man willing to sell all his boxes of frutta for a few florins, and with his wife thrown in too!" Pierro shook his head, but grinned despite his obvious hardship.

"Darling, we should pack up now. There's no one here."

Flora possessed a tired, gentle voice that spoke of lonely nights and despondent days. The nauseating smell of vegetables rotting softly in the rank heat seemed to echo the decline of her business.

"Ahh, but I only just got here! What a sad waste of your time Giuseppe… Perhaps you would consider taking supper with us?"

Ezio hesitated, but his empty stomach decided for him before he could refuse.

"It would be a pleasure."

As the couple moved out of the square, the assassin adjusted his cloak to cover his armour, and quietly followed.

**A/N**

Hee hee just an innocent meat-selling urchin xD … or so they think!


	10. Waiter, There's An Eye In My Soup

Ezio peered down at the rapidly congealing mass in his bowl and tried to look hungry. He could see vegetables in there, some of which he recognised, and some that he wasn't sure were even edible. Anchovies floated like slugs on the scummy surface, and there appeared to be things looking up at him from the bottom. He glanced surreptitiously upwards to see what everyone else was doing.

The sparsely furnished room was as silent as the grave, and the assassin had heard some noisy deaths in his time. Flora did nothing except sit staring at him with a steely gaze, her own food untouched. A wise idea, perhaps. Pierro was busily scribbling on some trading forms, so no help there. His skin crawled.

Gingerly, Ezio raised his spoon to his mouth and tasted a tiny, tiny morsel from the edge. He almost gagged on the strong spices that masked the rottenness, but tried to turn it into a cough, rather unsuccessfully.

"So, what kind of fare are you used to eating then, Signore Butcher?" said Flora icily.

Ezio tried not to blush. How on earth had he got into this absurd domestic situation? To be polite, he forced down a mouthful of the stew and swallowed without letting it touch the sides of his mouth.

"Er, well meat, mostly…" He grinned sheepishly, and took several large gulps of the cheap wine to wash the cloying taste from his teeth.

Flora, never letting her gaze waver, dipped her spoon delicately into her bowl and ate a mouthful pointedly.

Ezio, a strained smile plastered on his face, matched and raised her offer, coating a piece of hard bread in the fishy slime and tearing off a mouthful.

Before it could go too far, Pierro spoke without looking up.

"Flora. Stop teasing him. You know more than anyone that it isn't quite up to our usual standards."

Flora narrowed her eyes at her husband and began rolling the meal around in her mouth as it if it were the most delicious food she had ever had the pleasure of tasting.

The assassin smiled genuinely. "Well, next time I'm around, I'll see if I can't bring you a little something from our shop."

Pierro's eyes lit up, and he raised his beaker to his new acquaintance.

"If you gentlemen are going to be drinking the night away, I will retire now whilst I still can. Buona sera." As Flora walked off, Pierro gently stroked her arm as she went past his chair. "Buona sera."

As soon as they were alone, Signor Contadino glanced furtively around, and then suddenly leaned across the table and grabbed Ezio by the arms.

"Listen, I don't know who you are 'Giuseppe' but you clearly aren't a butcher, so stop pretending to be one or get out of my house!"

Ezio blinked, and opened his mouth. How had he been found out?

The farmer held up his hand. "Don't try to defend yourself man. I know Signore Taglibue, and the last time I checked, he had three rather fetching daughters."

"I-"

"Now I don't want to know who you are, because I've already guessed."

The assassin froze. He fingered his wrist guards uncertainly.

"You, my sneaky little friend, are a soldier, or some kind of mercenary. Don't take me for a fool; I know a butchers knife when I see one, and you were carrying a damn mace, _cretino_! And don't even get me started on that armour you're trying so hard to conceal. Mio dio, I'm not blind!"

Pierro gave him a stern look, and Ezio felt like a small child again; found out after a tall tale too many. His face grew hot and he itched to simply pull up his hood and blend into the background.

"Angry though I may be - I am curious. Is it purely coincidenza that we keep meeting, or do you have some darker motive?"

He considering worming out of the situation in his usual sleek manner, but something prompted him to tell Pierro the truth, or at least an approximation of it.

"Mi… Mi dispiace signore Contadino. I was in desperate need of company, and you have been so much more than that, even though we have met only twice. You protected me and invited me into your home, and I abused that, for which you have my sincere apologies. I'm afraid I cannot tell you who I am, though Dio knows what a relief that would be, but I hope that I can repay your many favours one day."

Ezio felt a ridiculous urge to bow, but instead blinked earnestly, trying to convey both his gratitude and his innocence. The man looked a little puzzled, but his features suddenly bloomed into a warm, trusting smile, and he released Ezio's arms. Wincing, the assassin massaged the tender stitches in his shoulder. They were still holding him together, just.

"Ha! As stupid as it seems, I believe you. A more honest speech I have never heard from a liar. Should you ever feel the need for some friendly conversation, just come and find me. Preferably with some fresh mince, if you happen to know any real butchers."

He winked.

After several more beakers of wine, he began getting ready to leave his new friend, feeling a great deal more cheerful and optimistic. At the door, he hesitated, and turned back.

"Listen, you haven't noticed any strangers around here have you? They would be tall, cloaked. I heard rumours there was bad business around these parts…?"

Pierro scratched his stubble vaguely. "Well, I must say there has been a lot of talk on the street recently. But I've never seen them myself, so I assumed they were simply condottieri passing through… or something." He hiccupped, and leaned against the cracked door frame.

"I think I need to sleep now. I wish you luck wherever you're going… And I'll keep an eye open for those dark, mysterious people." Pierro winked, then staggered back into the house.

On the way back to the Inn where he had left Leonardo, he stopped at the Sarto store to refurbish himself with the latest Florentine fashions; subtle black flowing garments topped with a long red cape. He would be more careful in future to cover his armour; a short cape was no use when there were streetwise Florentines about.

The barkeep gave him a suspicious look as he entered the main drinking area, and a few old drunks from the night before snickered into their flagons of wine. He found Leonardo in their room. He had obviously grown bored of waiting, and so had used a piece of charcoal to cover a whole wall with drawings. There were trees, strange machines, and even a man with four arms and the tentacles of an octopus.

"Ezio!" Leonardo looked up from the wall, and waved his blackened hands in greeting.

"Oh Dio… Leo how are you going to explain this to the innkeeper? I doubt his future guests will want a big octopus man on their bedroom wall.

The artist looked hurt, and protested. "_I_ would like a big octopus man on _my_ wall!"

The assassin laughed. "Come, it's time we should go. There have been rumours of outsiders in the Mercado. It's only a matter of time before they find us."

There was a knock on the door, and in walked the innkeeper. "I have come to collect your payme- Che cosa! What is that? Is that… a squid? How dare you graffiti my beautiful white walls! I'll have the guardia on you! Out, get out!" He rolled up his sleeves and advanced on them.

Leonardo winced. "Window?"

"Window."

Grabbing his friend by the arm, Ezio leapt onto the sill and pulled both of them onto the roof. He slammed the wooden shutters down after him and then pushed Leonardo onto a haystack below them.

By the time the innkeeper managed to heave open the heavy window shutters, the two vagabonds were nowhere to be seen.  
"Merda!"

The next day, the octopus man was viciously scrubbed out of existence. If he'd waited long enough, that wall would have been worth more than all the wine in his cellar.

**A.N**

Sorry everyone! I've been living in Africa travelling in time composing a masterpiece procrastinating. Thanks for your patience!


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